Читать книгу The Blind - A.F. Brady - Страница 26

Richard is still complaining about Devon and his jacket; he’s become obsessed, and he isn’t letting it go. He spent half the day today indicating that something must be done about this man and his jacket and his confetti. We didn’t have a session together, but he showed up at my door over and over again, demanding action. I’m going to Shirley’s office. Shirley is Devon’s counselor, so she must know something.

“Shirley, what’s the deal with Devon? The jacket? I have a patient who is completely disturbed by his jacket. Don’t ask me why.”

“What jacket?” Shirley is eating a fruit cup with a plastic spoon.

“Really? Shirley? The leather jacket he wears all day every day. The old, scrappy motorcycle jacket? You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed this. He wears it every day. And what’s up with the confetti he puts everywhere? Every time I have him in a group, he leaves these little brown scraps of paper or paint or something behind. Do you not notice this?” I’m looking at her chair, and it’s covered in the confetti. It’s covered in everything.

“Oh, the shit jacket.”

“What? The what?” I’ve never heard Shirley curse. It’s like Grandma taking a whiskey shot or smoking a blunt—what the hell is this? “Shirley!”

“He wears that jacket as a repellent.”

“A repellent from what? From who?”

“Whom. It’s a people repellent. It’s his shit jacket. He learned this while he was homeless. He was constantly getting harassed while sleeping on the streets. He needed to find a way of surviving out there, so he smeared shit all over the back of his jacket so he would stink and people would stay away from him.” She says this like she is telling me the turkey is done. She is nonchalant and unfazed by this information. I’m fascinated and repulsed.

“Oh, my God, Shirley! They’re shit flakes? You mean to tell me the confetti all over the unit is really a pile of dried shit flakes! Jesus Christ!”

I’m slamming her door; I’m barreling into the bathroom. I’m scrubbing my hands, I’m fuming. I’m shocked. How is it possible that we have all been handling shit flakes, and Shirley never bothered to tell us any of this? Jesus, no wonder Richard was disturbed by the jacket.

I sit down at my desk and compose three emails. One to Rachel to ask her to confiscate the shit jacket now that I know it’s a fucking biohazard. One to the head of the maintenance staff asking for a deep clean of the group rooms. And finally, one to the staff to let everyone know that the confetti they have been surrounded with is actually dried shit flakes, and in case we had forgotten, we are surrounded by insanity. With the pressure to keep myself sane—the need to ensure that something exists to keep a line between me and my patients—days like these help me believe that there really is a reason that I have keys and they don’t.